


Cooking

by TheOtherCourse (kanevixen)



Series: Tom and Abigail Series [13]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Bad Puns, Co-workers, Cooking, Cooking Lessons, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends With Benefits, Ice, Puns & Word Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 01:57:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3470126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanevixen/pseuds/TheOtherCourse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In July 2011, Immediately following the Avengers shoot (moved from April-August to January-June).Tom Hiddleston and his costar, Abigail Morgan are drawn into a very private and torrid affair. </p><p>Tom gives Abby some tips on how to handle herself in the kitchen.</p><p>
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</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cooking

I woke gradually from an afternoon nap to my lover’s lips brushing up my spine. I was splayed face to the soft white pillows, covered from the waist down in a soft white sheet. The mattress shifted with Tom’s movements and maneuvers to get to more of me. He had begun the warm, arousing sweep with his kisses at the small of my back and was working his way up. I moaned his name into the 600 thread count pillowcase to let him know that he was successful in waking me from sleep. That long track of naked skin led him to my ear, where he whispered, “Abby.”

I simply groaned, “No.”

That quiet, sexy laugh he did in the back of his throat sounded in my ear and created a stirring between my legs. “Lunch,” he announced quietly and eased himself off the bed.

Shifting my head, I watched him slip into a pair of black boxer briefs. Although my view was skewed horizontally, I appreciated the vista of his lean and lanky physique. The man had the body and face of Adonis, put together by God himself. Disappointment gripped me briefly when he threw a t-shirt on over his bare torso.

I listened to the actor padded from the bedroom to the kitchen, bare feet dully slapping along hardwood floor. I heard him open his refrigerator, remove a few items and put them on his counter. A creaky cupboard door opened and then closed, plates or glasses were unloaded onto the counter. Tom opened the freezer and after a few seconds, exhaled dramatically.

“Abby!” Then to himself, he chastised, “Every time with this girl.”

I’m no good in the kitchen, he knows this as fact. I’m not sure why this surprises him every time I do something silly or foolish. I called back, guessing randomly, “I didn’t do it!”

“That’s precisely the problem.” Uh oh, I should’ve said that I had done it. Fifty-fifty chance, and I guessed wrong. He continued murmuring something or other that I couldn’t make out.

Heaving myself up from the bed, I quickly shimmied into a pair of pink knickers and one of Tom’s solid color t-shirts. I loved the smell of him, and he became very amorous when I wore his clothes. I sensed from his mumbling from the other room that I might need the ammunition to get on his good side again. I was also very well aware of what kind of havoc I could wreak on the unsuspecting room. I sighed with the knowledge that I was about to get another lesson in the ways of the kitchen.

Very nearly stomping, I stood in the doorway and asked ashamedly, “What did I do this time?”

I looked around the small kitchen and the cluttered countertops for a clue before Tom laid into me. He turned to me, eyebrows raised, mouth in a straight line of disappointment. “There’s no ice in the tray  _again_.”

I nodded, “I know. I used it.”

“Did you think about making more?”

I shrugged. “I thought about it, yeah.”

He wasn’t smiling yet clearly not amused with my responses. “Why didn’t you?”

“I lost the recipe.”

He stood stock still and silent for a long moment, blinked at me once, and burst into a fit of laughter. I stared at him blankly not sure what else to say or do. He pulled me into his arms and kissed the top of my head, the rumble of laughter in his chest vibrating against my ear. “Oh, Abby, you are…” He trailed off, the giggle still in his voice.

Tom stepped away and picked up the ivory colored ice tray from the counter. “Darling, we’re going to go through this once more.”

Yes, I admit it, we had been over the topic before, but I’m not proud. “Will you put the instructions on the freezer door?”

He shook his head definitively. “I promise you, darling, you won’t need it.”

“I’ll break something.”

“You won’t.” To prove his point, he rapped the tray against the counter four times in rapid succession. He then held the unaltered piece of plastic in front of me as proof. “Trust me, quick lesson.”

“Can I break water?”

“Abby, darling, I’d love to see you try.” Damn, he got one over on me and I’d have to listen to him drone on and on about the intricacies of making ice. It was a complicated process, turning a liquid to a solid, right? He handed me the oblong tray and a multi-colored striped tea towel.

Already feeling completely out of my element, I held the tray in one hand and the towel in the other. I held them before me helplessly, “Tom, can I mention one more time that I don’t cook?”

He ran his hand over my hair gently and smiled. “You can mention it, but this isn’t cooking. First thing - you can handle this - clear out the cups.”

In an attempt to dissuade him from Tom’s cooking class for dummies, I shifted the tray and towel into the same hand. I lowered them to my side and stepped into him, breast to torso. Seductively, I looked up at him through my lashes, “I prefer you handle my cups.” I took his hand and had him fill his palm with my left breast. A terrible allurement, granted, but I felt more comfortable with sex than cooking. I especially liked his hands on my oven rack. Certainly wasn’t my proudest moment. He may claim that ice is not cooking, but it takes place in the dreaded kitchen which meant danger for me and my limbs.

Temporarily distracted, Tom watched his hand squeeze my cotton covered flesh. His thumb provoked my nipple to full strain. “You are a wicked woman, Abigail.” Hiking up on my tippy toes, I tried to kiss him, but he pulled away. He released my breast and took one step away from me. “But you are not getting out of this, you little minx.”

I kept the pout at a simmer and focused on the towel and contraption in my hand. I did as instructed before I tried turning tables. When I finished, I threw the towel at his face in irritation for making me do this. Patiently, he directed, “Turn on the tap and fill all the pockets.” I again followed his instruction, tempted to throw that too in his face, but thought better of it. He helped me put the blasted thing in the freezer.

He smiled proudly, running his hand over my hair once more. “Brilliant! All sorted. You’ll be able to do it next time.”

“Fork you,” I said hotly.

“What a charming offer, Abby! So very knife and sweet of you.” He winked at me, dishing my joke back at me. “Shall we attempt cooking? Let me show you how to make an omelet.”

Suspiciously, “That’s a whisk-y business, that is.”

“Come on, sugar. You’re all I knead.” He was having too much fun at my expense and a little too proud that he could meet me play for play. His proud expression was a closed lip smile, his cheekbones hidden below swells of mirth, dimples at the corners of his mouth, and crinkle laugh lines at his eyes.

He guided me to face the counter and lined my back with his front. He wrapped his left arm around my middle to secure me from running away. “Let me introduce you to the eggs.”

“Oh for goodness stake,” I steamed exasperatedly, rolling my eyes.

Trapped in his arms, I was forced to watch as he cracked two eggs and let the liquid slide into a mixing bowl, chucking the shells in the sink. He tried to hand me one of the eggs, but I refused to give it a go. “Abby,” he laughed. “It’s the yeast you could do.”

“You’re reaching, Hiddleston,” I warned heatedly.

He cracked two more eggs into the bowl, discarding the shells again before pouring a splash of milk in with the yolks. As he seasoned the creamy liquid, he whispered, “You spice up my life.”

I dissolved into giggles. “How long you been waiting to use that one? I suppose I should say… give me a minute… um, you bake me laugh.”

He joined my sounds of amusement. I was enjoying so much the press of him behind me. He added, “Beyond measure?”

I took all his utensils and left them abandoned on the countertop. I turned around in his arms and hooked my arms around his neck. I murmured, “Let’s go spoon.”


End file.
